Macon

…having issues finding a place for her.

…wouldn't have come to you with this if there were any other options.

…you've always been so very dear to her.

Macon read through Emmaline's letter several times.

'Finding a place for her' implied that, presently, she had no place.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He did not like the insinuation.

Izabel would always have a place with Macon, and there was no question to what his answer would be.

"What's that?"

He looked up from Emmaline's elegant scrawl to find his brother standing in the doorway of their father's study. Macon had been so immersed in the letter he hadn't even heard him come up from the tunnels.

"It's from Emmaline."

Hunting raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

"— she wants Izabel to stay with us."

His brother crossed the room to where Macon was sitting at the dining room table, "Until her Claiming? I thought she was staying with her Grandmother?"

Macon glanced back down to the letter he still held in his hands, skimming over the lines 'there have been some accidents'.

"She…was. She's not anymore."

Hunting, unceremoniously, slumped into the seat beside Macon's, "I don't know, M. That's a lot to take on." He leaned his chair backwards, lifting the front two legs off the ground, "What about father?"

Macon narrowed his eyes a little, "That may be, but she has to go somewhere. Father's never had any issue with Izabel staying here. You know that."

The legs of Hunting's chair lowered back to the floor with a smack, "Not that we've heard from him in months or anything." There was an underlying bitterness to his tone.

"Are you honestly anxious for him to come back?" Macon couldn't stop the dubious expression that crossed his face. He tilted his head and studied his brother, carefully.

"No, Macon. It's just the principle of the thing. Never mind — look, I don't care if the kid stays here. It's fine with me." His brother's hands were gesturing enthusiastically now. Privately, Macon had always seen this as Hunting trying to redirect your attention when he didn't want to discuss something.

"Good, that's good. It would not be until after her 15th birthday."

"Exceptional. Kitchen!" A small, silver bowl full of crescent moon shaped, cinnamon candies appeared on the table before them. Hunting popped a few into his mouth, pouring the rest into the pocket of his charcoal grey overcoat.

Macon did a double take, "Are you wearing my coat?"

Hunting looked down at himself, feigning shock, "Oh my. It would appear so, brother." He raised his chair back up again, placing his dirt encrusted, booted feet up onto the table, "You know how cold it can get in the tunnels."

Macon felt his eye twitch, "Feet. Off."

Hunting smirked at him, but lowered his feet to the ground and stood.

"You need to lighten up, M." He paused suddenly, his eyes hardening, "You, M'dear brother, look like absolute shit."

Macon gave a surprised bark of laughter, "Thank you kindly, little brother."

"I'm serious. Have you not been sleeping well again?"

Macon ran his fingers through his hair, "Well enough."

"…Right. You know if there's ever anything —"

"Of course." He smiled softly at his brother; trying to convey the message 'please drop it' as much as possible.

Shaking his head, Hunting walked back towards their father's study. "I'll be home in a few hours. I still have some errands to run."

"Nothing — disreputable, I hope."

"Ha-ha, your wit astounds me, Macon." Hunting traveled out of the room for a moment, reappearing seconds later with a small book in his hand, "I just came back for this. I'm going to the Caster Library."

His brother tucked the book into one of the overcoats large pockets. Smirking condescendingly, he laid his hands on the coats collar, popping the lapels, "Do you mind?"

Macon waved his hand dismissively at him, smiling, despite himself, at the sound of his brother's laughter. The distinct sound of a key turning in a lock echoed through the large dining hall, and then Hunting was gone.

The air in the room felt stifling in his absence.

Macon ran his hands across the table, smoothing out the wrinkles Hunting had left in the expansive tablecloth.

It was a deep red.

Actually, the whole house had a touch of crimson to it tonight. Macon wasn't sure if it was Hunting, or himself, that had caused that. He struggled to remember something that Izabel had told him once — something about — colors and symbolism?

People see red as representing the bad stuff. Like fire and blood. But, you know, I read in a book that it means courage, or something. That's why so many Mortals put it on their flags and all that.

Macon sighed.

Izabel... She would turn sixteen in thirteen months.

Hadn't they just gone through this with Delphine? He didn't know if he could handle the strain of it all over again.

It would be even harder this time around.

He had not lived with Delphine. He didn't have to look into her eyes everyday knowing that come her sixteenth birthday her will would be taken from her. That she could become something unrecognizable.

That's a lot to take on. Hunting had said.

Macon felt something ominous flicker in his chest.

He glanced, solemnly, to the chair his brother had just vacated. He suddenly wished he'd gone along with him.

The Lunae Libri.

It was a place he visited often.

Kallianne Treadeau, the Keeper, was pleasant enough, and she never objected to his sporadic visits up to the Gatlin County Library.

It was the only place in this unfortunate town that he could stomach.

That could, perhaps, be attributed to the shortage of actual Gatlin County citizens in attendance there. Heaven forbid they pollute their minds with the written word. The townspeople of Gatlin were so small-minded and… shortsighted.

Macon resented it. He resented them.

Izabel would have told him to stop being biggety.

He laid Emmaline's letter flat on the table in front of him.

…having issues finding a place for her.

No place.

Macon could hear his father's voice in his head, his words slurred from too much whiskey. He could feel the phantom ache of broken fingers, and taste the blood in his mouth.

Useless, idiot boy. Can't even follow a simple instruction, can you? What use are you to me?

He turned to the back side of the letter, pulled a pen from his waistcoat pocket, and wrote a straightforward reply.

Of course.

With a simple cast the letter began to dissolve, and then disappeared completely.

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